While walking home today, I passed a kid clutching one of those miniature coke cans in his hand. He was sauntering up his driveway and couldn't have been more than four years old.

We looked at each other. Then he stopped and I supposed he was just shy and was waiting for me to pass or something.

But no.

That little kid was devious. He raised his hand, coke can still clutched in his little fist, and curled his arm backwards -- like he was ready to pitch a baseball. Then he narrowed his little eyes at me, his brain calculating how and when to throw the can so that it would head shot me (ten points!) no doubt.

And, instinctively, I, still striding forwards, thrust out the index finger of my left hand and said, "Don't you even think about it."

He froze. I continued walking and, when I had gone about six feet, looked over my shoulder to give him a beady eye. He was still staring at me, hand upraised, the coke can a small red blur in his palm.

While I was walking home from the gas station, a nice cup of hot coffee in my hand, I passed by a truck waiting for a red light to turn green.

They said something or whistled -- I'm not sure. But it broke through my trance and of course I ended up looking at them. And of course they looked like guys who go to college to party, booze, meet chicks, and then drunkenly impregnate them because they're too cool for condoms.

Because I couldn't distinguish what they said, my brain automatically mapped out a flow chart. They probably weren't even addressing me because guys don't ever notice me. However, if they had, then they would probably say something else if they were going my way in which case I had to be prepared.

My body is ridiculously jumpy. You know in tense, suspenseful movies you have The Noise that is usually something as innocuous as a fork falling to the ground, but the whole audience jumps anyway? Well, even when I know that fork is going to fall and make that noise, my body insists on jumping. I just can't control it.

So I steeled myself. And tried to look like I wasn't noticing them at the same time.

And when they drove by me (after their light turned green), the dude in the passenger seat screamed at me.

Like a girl.

(And yes, I totally jumped...it was frustrating.)

I'm not really sure what the purpose of it was...but okay. Douchery achieved, none-the-less.

And then I lazily gave them the finger. I had considered not giving it to them because I didn't want them to think they had gotten under my skin - even though they totally had -- but, at the same time, those piffle-heads were jerks. And it is wearisome being the bigger person all the time, especially when it appears to be too much to ask that nice guys notice me (I attract very few males in my direction, but every single one has been a creeper of some sort -- in fact, it's gotten so bad with a particular one that I am extremely hesitant to even go to the movies by myself because my discomfort levels sky rocket and for some reason I keep running into him there...awkward).

I think it was the scream that tipped the balance towards response instead of inaction. If they had said /something/ or even just honked their horn I probably would have just ignored them. But a scream? Really?

I think today was a big step for me in realizing priorities and personal growth and whatnot.

A few days ago my ex-neighbor-lady's-boyfriend-whom-I-think-is-now-my-friend called me and asked me for some essay help. Some tightening up was needed and he didn't know how to do it. So I asked when would be a good time and he said Friday evening and I thoughtlessly agreed.

See, I'm still not used to watching television on the telly. And I'm rather peeved that the CW's streaming system leaves so much to be desired because, come on now, are they just too good for Hulu? Or for streaming the next day? Internet is where it's at, you fogies.

Anyway, it took me a ridiculously long time to remember that Supernatural was on on Friday evenings. And I knew there was no way in hell I'd make it home in time for 8 o'clock.

Enter moral quandary: do I re-schedule or do I man up and keep my promises?

Once, a long long time ago, when I was young and naieve and foolish, I put the internet over real live people (which caused me to move to Texas, a state in which I am now stuck due to my digital shenanigans).

Never having what I could call friends before, I was hesitant to prioritize a tv show over them.

BUT SUPERNATURAL.

I ended up going over there. Had a fine time. They fed me free food (it's Texan food so yes, it was high in fat but it was DELICIOUS so there).

But I'm still bummed about missing Supernatural tonight.

And I'm not even really sure how much this is evidenced of my maturing state because I'm 100% certain that if the CW didn't stream at all (horrors), I would have rescheduled. I actually think I'm okay with this. Some people have their cigarettes. Their clubbing. Their work. Their this or their that.

I have my television shows.

And I'm okay with waiting a few extra days for Supernatural for one reason:

Delayed Gratification.

Because by the time I get around to watching it, it'll just be a handful of days to see the next one as opposed to an entire week! And I might even work it so that it's a post mid term treat!

Current Mood: full

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Thursday was a crap day for me -- so I automatically wasn't feeling that great about myself. Not only was I rejected again (I know you're not supposed to take these things personally, but when the best still isn't enough then one wonders about things and the self esteem goes down a few notches), but I discovered that it wasn't people seeing my bare breasts (awful bags of fat that they are) or my genitalia uncloaked, but it was the little things.

My hair is weird again. I'm 23 years old and I still have acne and, even though a paste of vinegar and baking soda has exerted some type of control over my face, my body is pocked with pimples. Walking to and from school, the sweat from the sun (not so bad now that it is autumn) makes it almost impossible to keep the body acne under control. It appears everywhere.

My feet -- always taking a punishment because of my crooked ankles (the callouses on my big toes, compensating for the off kilter-ness of everything, are humongous, ugly looking things) -- are worse than normal because of all the walking I am doing -- my skin is peeling, I have callous/blister things that are forming around my heel. Fact is, besides the uncomfortableness of such attire, I would never wear sandals because my feet are monsters and they would scare all the other feet away and then how could students get to class on time, much less be able to draw my naked little (haaa) self?

And let's not forget the reason I wear baggy clothes and generally have body image issues that never manifest beyond a, Today sucked SO HARD I will attempt to find solace and companionship in a pint of ice cream even though desserts usually aren't sentient and don't have mouths or even arms to hug a particularly lonely person.

You can't even tell I've lost weight (and I seem to have hit a plateau despite the extensive walking (plus exercise routine) and the only eating around two meals a day because there's just no time). It's very frustrating. My pants are looser -- my size 14s are usually slipping to my upper thighs, I have to wear even longer shirts when I wear them now) -- and my size 12s gap a little. Sometimes I do despair because, even despite this small encouragement, I still am shapeless and fat.

And all of these thoughts were running in my head as I was picking lint off my robe while waiting for the clock to hurry up (as per usual, I arrived about an hour early).

Eventually I forced myself to go into the art building and look at the pictures I had heard were lining the walls.

Then I wished I had gotten around to doing this yesterday (or even Wednesday) so that I would have had more than thirty minutes to prepare myself. An art student sits behind me in my poetry class and she had described the wall as people literally have their "balls/vag" out all the way -- and that sounded too crass to me, but I had already committed -- and I had determined not to let it bother me. Still, while walking through the doors, I steeled myself to be prepared for anything.

And it really wasn't that bad. Perhaps the residents of my area are uncomfortable with the idea of nudity because what I saw was generally tasteful -- even chaste really. They were people in different poses -- natural poses, not a forced pose that would encourage a sense of erotica or sexiness. They were normal people. There were thin models and those in between and then those who were obese.

It was very natural. And it helped me realize something.

We're all nude underneath our clothes. And this is how people look, in every day positions, without their clothes on.

I was okay with that.

I waited to meet up with Tracy, who was the instructor who hired me. There was a man in the art class -- I figured he was a student prepping his stuff.

It was actually Tracy. It was mildly discomfiting at first, but then I realized it didn't matter.

I disrobed in the bathroom, and we went over the pose.

I tried to take a picture of me (clothed) in the pose but my vanity has won out so words will have to suffice:

They set me up on a platform on a tower of cushions. I bend my left leg, propped my left arm on my knee, and let my fingers dangle. I put my right arm backwards, right leg mostly straight. A comfortable pose -- something I've sat in occasionally (just not so stylized as it were).

I thought I'd have trouble dropping the robe -- that maybe I'd feel nauseous or my arms would turn to wood or something, but it was perfectly easy. Easy as blinking. Eyes open - robe on. Eyes close, open -- boom: robe off. Easy as pie.

20 minutes I'd pose, with a five minute break.

The comfort of the pose soon leeched away. It's very difficult to keep sitting still for so long, and I never sit still anyway (I'm a chronic rocker/swayer). My muscles burned and ached, and sometimes they'd twitch on their own accord. When I swivolled my eyes, I could feel the muscles in my ears being tugged by the movement.

Yeah, I don't know why I felt that, but I did.

It's very strenuous work. Sitting so deathly still all the time.

I would watch the people sketching me with charcoal out of the corners of my eyes (no aliens or tardis, alas). I'd also attempt to eavesdrop -- it was very strange, hearing them talk about me the way they did.

At the same time, I felt like both a person (we're all nude here) and as an object (but not unpleasantly so, ie, not in a limiting way).

It was very odd. Like being in a luminal space.

The oddity of it caused the time to go by very quickly. Until the very end, when my muscles were very tired and I was very sleepy and I very much wanted to go home -- except I still had a class after this

This strange juxtaposition of both being object and person was heightened when some of the artists spoke to me and invited me to see their progress. I only said yes because I didn't want to hurt their feelings -- I had never intended to see how their wips were coming along.

I was disappointed with it or with me - I'm not sure.

In the very few I saw, either the ones they invited me to look at or out of the corner of my eye, I looked more like a fertility goddess. You know, the statue -- with the monstrous breasts, roomy hips, pregnant stomach? The very essence of femininity?

I'm sure this would sound presumptuous in another time period, but as it was it just sagged at my already flagging spirit. But, I can't blame the experience for making me feel this way -- having one's insecurities thrust into one's face is better than letting them fester.

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The interview was only about 10 minutes long. I walked in -- nice and confident, all smiles. Shook her hand very warmly, sat down straight. Mostly succeeded in not rocking.

First question: Tell me about yourself -- what kind of place are you at in your life right now.

I didn't lie. I told her I was an English major, minoring in creative writing. That I wanted to go on to graduate school, focusing on pop culture and science fiction and how that sort of thing shapes the current culture. That my husband was divorcing me and that I needed a job.

She wanted to know what I thought my greatest attributes were. I flubbed this one a bit - repeated something I said at the beginning, so I wound it down as quickly as possible. I told her that I took my responsibilities seriously and was dedicated to my work -- I cited my 4.0 grade average and mentioned that even when I had no transportation and lived three miles away from the school, I biked to school every day, rain or shine. I said that I thought on my feet, citing my experience as a stage manager (unfortunately, when I accidentally repeated myself, I sort of undermined this one...oh well), and that I was hard working and so on.

Then she wanted me to talk about my employment history. I laughed and said, ah yes, the gap. So I explained it to her -- told her the god's honest truth (though I omitted the fact that after I quit the prison, it had sent me into a spiraling depression - she didn't need to know that). She seemed sympathetic when I said I wasn't psychologically equipped to deal with inmates masturbating in front of me.

As far as I can tell (and what Dad confirmed when I called him about it -- he's hired people before --) it was a text book perfect interview. (It was much better than my first interview -- which is saying something since, despite the fact that I've lost count to how many jobs I've applied for, only two jobs (including this one) have actually called me back.)

I think it's text book perfect pitch is why I didn't get the job. Everything was strong and unique and me except for the attributes bit -- if everybody studies up for an interview and says the exact "perfect" words, then a status quo will be established. Since any floozie can do a google search for the perfect interview, I'm sure the bar will necessarily be raised once everybody starts to say the "right" thing. It is no longer enough to be able to parrot back the right adjectives in an outgoing, confident manner -- if I do, I'm just another face in the masses that succeeded in doing my homework. Well, here's a gold star for you, honey, but this is the real world. Wow the proverbial socks off us please. Without being cliched. Only we're allowed to be cliched. Now, go.

So, what I need to do is seriously consider what my best qualities are. I need to come up with new words, stronger words, splendiferious words to describe myself. What does hardworking mean anymore? As Delirium says, once you say a word often enough, it loses all meaning. I can't just be a poet on paper, or when I'm feeling like a wordsmith -- I need to be a poet every hour of every day. I need to see myself in new ways, and I need to let other people see how I view myself by allowing the words I choose to shepherd them towards that conclusion.

I am a living, organic poem. I need to start acting that way instead of just like any other Mary Jane or John Doe. I need to literally write myself into being through language that is not cliche, regurgitated by thousands of potential employees ever interview like yesterday's vomit. Something fresh and green -- vernal -- if you please.

The other thing I am considering is completely omitting my employment history. It's spotty. It's cancerous. It's the gang-grene of my resume. Apparently, a year volunteering at a hospital, a year volunteering at a library, the honor of being on both the dean's and president's lists, two writing awards, and a gpa of 4.0 (over a three year academic career) does not adequately communicate the fact that I am not some employment butterfly, flitting here and there from job to job with no sense of permanence or stability.

Fine. Let's excise that tumorous portion of my resume if it insists on overshadowing my other accomplishments.

I'm also going to pursue information regarding volunteering at the Crisis Pregnancy Center. I held off this week because of the job interview -- didn't want to commit to something and then say, oh, by the way, now that I have this real job -- I would do it on Friday, but they're only open from 10-1 and I'll be modeling then going to class (which ends at one) so I'll have to wait till Monday.

I'd say go forth young readers of mine and forge yourselves into a poem, but I don't know if that will actually work. Will let you know on my next interview. If I should have the good luck to get one.

It's almost 3 a.m. I suppose I should go to bed or something. I would like to send my upstairs neighbor and Munchkin a politely worded note that invites them to metaphorically screw themselves.

Current Mood: thirsty

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I woke up at six, but then fell back asleep for an hour and fifteen minutes. I dashed off a breakfast of oatmeal, threw on some clothes, and drove to class and cursed at all the idiots on the road, infectious little bugger - Crowley really was onto something.

But during the entirety of school, I kept waiting for a call, one single call letting me know I got the job. I didn't get a call -- but I did get an email letting me know they already found someone else for the job. What wonderful news. Calloo. Callay. Let's put a bloody parade on the streets.

And when I brought Munchkin home - after finding out that he cowered under the bed at the neighbor's bed all day -- I brought him home, and, five minutes from home, smell such a pungent odor because Munchkin had one and wet himself -- the fur, the cat everything drenched in urine and I have to meet Lacy for Easy A in 30 minutes and it takes forever to get it cleaned up and he still smells like urine and the house smells like pee and everything is swirling down the toilet.

Sure the movie's funny, but only thing i can think about is how I yelled at Munchkin when I was trying to clean him up and how pitiful it he looked and how awful it must be to get two baths in one day (because on the way up he had thrown up in the catbox, and got that all over himself of course), and how I had to leave him all drenched and huddling so that I wouldn't miss the movie with Lacy and how irritated and frustrated and angry at him at this particular moment.

And when it's all over, there's the creepy guy from school trying to say hello and it's all I can do to avoid him with Lacy and then there's Munchking and what a horrible person I am. It's also 9:00 p.m when we say goodbye and I still haven't had dinner yet and the Subway is out of tomatoes but I'm going to have the sandwich today by god.

And Munchkin still smells. Everything smells. I don't know if it's my imagination or what. But of course Munchkin is already curling up on my blanket where I sleep with his stinky body and there are probably germs and everything what the bloody fuck.

For those of you who don't watch Glee, this episode was religious centric. No, I did not automatically hate the episode because it was all Christ and unicorns shooting rainbow beams from their laser eyes of death. But what I did resent was the presentation of Finn being Mr. Stupid McStupid and the presentation of the lone atheist, Kurt (and Kurt had the only good song btw).

Finn praying to a cheese sandwich of Jesus? Come on. Teenagers aren't that stupid. And even letting that slide -- the things he prayed for? To be able to touch Rachel's boobs? What the FRELL is up with that? I highly resented that Finn prayed that God would let him get to second base with Rachel and, when she did let him touch her boob, he attributed it to God. You know where that leaves Rachel? As a play thing that doesn't really have a will of her own once you invite an all powerful deity into the equation of deciding whether the girl wants to get laid or not.

(And even though Finn had this realization that God really did have nothing to do with it -- the fact that this seemed to be a non-issue irritated me -- just like in last episode when FuzzHead grabbed the ass of a long haired personage in front of him was only "wrong" and a "mistake" because it happened to be a man with long hair -- like, be careful who you grope, kids -- it might actually be a dude who'll punch you in the face instead of actually addressing the issue that this guy touched someone inappropriately.)

And as for the representations of atheists -- there were two atheists in the entire show: Sue and Kurt. And why were they atheists? Because God didn't answer their prayers and a loved one suffered.

Wonderful. That's the worst reason in the world to be an atheist and -- newsflash -- there are more atheists out there who are atheists than the ones who picked up their marbles and went home because they didn't like the way the game was going. Maybe if more substantial reasons had been offered along with the gut emotional ones then it would have been more palatable.

I also didn't like that only three belief systems were presented: Christianity (several denominations thereof), Judaism, and atheism. Monotheistic religions in other words. One of my biggest peeves with Glee is that it claims to celebrate its diversity but when it comes to the show itself, it's all just watered down coffee made from yesterday's stale grounds. The white heterosexual male view is still predominate in every episode -- so I shouldn't be surprised when it only chooses to represent the "respectable" monotheistic religions (because having one of the students be Islam probably doesn't exist in their minute little envelope).

But who am I kidding here -- the episode was probably only filmed to pander to the fundamentalist right wing Christians who think they're being marginalized because they feel that Glee has a mythical liberal/homosexual agenda that includes World Domination via pink sparkling dildos.

Personally, I bet Tina would have made an awesome Wiccan.

Just saying.

Current Mood: irate

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1. Make my German fulfillment official with my dazzling signature! (I was having paranoid fantasies of failing a fourth german course, not receiving my degree, and being stuck in texas for the rest of my life).

2. Work on my poetry -- polish the one that was really well received, cobble together the rough drafts of the other two into something worth sharing, and work on my journal. Which I haven't been doing. Meant to start today but something wonky happened to my nonexistant sleep schedule? No idea what, other than I have a hard time getting any and even when I do, I still wake up half dead, only able to think semi-coherently (which is not as sweet as semi-sweet chocolate chips). I thought maybe I was overdoing the exercising a little (jogging in place + walking to school) so I only took a short walk today to try to re-oxygenate my brain (didn't work).

3. Work on my Christmas Story! The Oktober-fest of words instead of beer! Sorry, J, I've given myself the entire month + the handful of days in September still. :p

4. Walk to the pregnancy crisis center and see what the dealio with that is. They emailed me, but I still need to see them in person. Thinking about volunteering there on Mondays, 1:30 - 3:30.

5. I collected sources for my ten page research paper for my Victorian Lit class, but I need to get them from the library, and start writing down passages and stuff. Trying to narrow down my thesis statement into something compelling instead of something vaguely broad (I thought it was silly that the professor suggested we already have a thesis sentence -- I mean, shouldn't you have a topic, then research, then narrow down to a thesis?).

6. Continue studying for the GRE. I'm going to try to put up a new batch of words to continue the dragon story, but I'll probably be too tired, even though I'm taking the car to school instead of walking. Or maybe I will walk. I guess it depends on how tired I am when I wake up tomorrow.

7. The Valero that's a ten minute walk from my house is hiring. The responsible part of me is telling me that I need to apply there. The other part of me is saying that I'll probably discover that working at Walmart was purgatory while the Valero is the actual hell. And you don't even get the added bonus of saving the world while you're there. The other other part of me wants me to wait to see if my friend can get me a campus job, or to see if the drawing thing picks up, or to see if I can finagle my way into a paying job at the pregnancy crisis center.

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The verdant dragon, ivy entwined around its talons, launched himself into the air, determined to distress his first damsel.

Verbose: wordy

"Don't be too verbose when you go about it," his father had warned him. "It might give you a charismatic charm -- which she probably won't notice as she's shrieking her pretty little head off -- but it will also give some dastardly knight the opportunity to slay you. Death by monologue is the chief cause of death for dragons -- second only to failure of the heart."

Veracity (noun): Filled with truth and accuracy.

The dragon did not doubt the veracity of his father's words. After all, his sister, in the midst of her own Operation: Distress mission had died in the midst of proclaiming her various talents, life ambitions, etc (monologue) when the knight to whom she had been speaking plunged his sword into her breast (heart failure).

Venerate (verb): to respect deeply.

Despite his father's objections, he still continued to venerate his sister's memory

Venerable (adj): respected because of age

and grieved that she would never become the venerable matriarch she had dreamed of becoming.

Variegated (adj): varied; marked with different colors.Green against the variegated sky of a the setting sun, he flapped his mighty wings,

Vacillate (verb): to physically sway or to be indecisive

vacillated by the wind and his own troubled heart: what if the distressed maiden to be refused to come away with him?

Usury (noun): the practice of lending money at exorbitant rates.

It would be his undying shame if he had to resort to usury in order to bribe some fair young maiden to scream and kick her dainty little heels and flick her golden hair -- and who knew what sort of rates they'd demand for a proper swoon.

Upbraid (verb): to scold sharply.

He would just have to do the job properly and thus avoid any upbraids his father might have in store for him.

Unequivocal (adj): absolute, certain.

He roared fire: that should establish him as a dragon! Not just any dragon, but a monster! An unequivocal terror that would be feared unequivocally!

Unconscionable (adj): unscrupulous; shockingly unfair or unjust

He would be known throughout the human realms as the most unconscionable beastie they ever met, the sort that launched night attacks and actually ate the damsels that fought back.

Umbrage (noun): offense; resentment

No, no -- there was no use taking umbrage at the genetics that determined that he be a dragon instead of something pleasant like a bard who sang to damsels instead of frightened them.

Tyro (noun): beginner; novice

(You see, fair reader, it never occurred to the dragon to become a draconian tyro of the harp.)

Turgid (adj): swollen as from a fluid; bloated

And so, belly turgid with molten flame, the dragon soared to the nearest castle where dwelt the richest king with his loveliest daughter.

Trenchant (adj): acute, sharp, or incisive; forceful; effective

Flame blasting through his trenchant teeth (literally and metaphorically speaking), he swooped over the soldiers manning the walls (careful not to buffet them unduly with his awe inspiring wings).

Transitory (adj): temporary; lasting a brief time

Unfortunately, their fear was transitory and the soldiers sounded the horn and thumped their swords against their shields and, generally, made a nuisance of themselves

Torpor (noun): extreme mental and physical sluggishness.

and once more the dragon longed to have been born when the golden age of the dragons was simply twilight with the promise of a brilliant dawn, in the days when soldiers, usually woefully ignorant of the very notion of flying lizards, swung their blades about in a drunken torpor, more often than not cutting off their own ears.

Tome (noun): book, usually large and academic

But now, there were entire tomes written about dragons, full of strategies for killing them in a variety of ways (quick and fast, slow and tortuous, ironically, etc) -- all in all, it was a bit more troublesome now that the human inhabitants had wised up a bit.

Toady (noun): one who flatters in the hope of gaining favors.

Then, of course, there were the spelled swords who were constantly begging for a blast of draconian fire to increase their sharpness or such nonsense -- the dragon always wondered if their wielders truly believed that such toady insinuations would actually work on a dragon of his mental caliber.

Tirade (noun): long, harsh speech or verbal attack.

The dragon sighed (a huge plume of fire completely enveloped the stables) and wondered if he would have to launch into some sort of tirade demanding that the population hand over their fairest damsel because, even after some thunderous roars that would have sent anybody in their right mind shrieking for the nearest exist, there was still no sign of anyone of suitable distress-able material.